


Providence

by zeldadestry



Category: Smallville
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-07-20
Updated: 2005-07-20
Packaged: 2017-10-10 16:33:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/101819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zeldadestry/pseuds/zeldadestry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She lets herself believe, just for this moment.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Providence

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't been able to find the word 'dichotic' in the dictionary, but since it was a Smallville episode title, I just went ahead and used it anyway.

She's written him too many letters since she left Smallville. She feels better when she writes to him. He doesn't write much back, but he sends her postcards from the different cities he visits on business. It's easy to look at those pictures of Hong Kong and Madrid and Prague and imagine him there, far away and appreciating a friendly voice from home.

She sits on the front steps of her apartment building, nervously fingering the ends of her hair. It's shorter than it's ever been, a glossy bob with bangs. She went through her entire wardrobe, four times, before choosing this simple black dress, clingy and short. After a lot of thought on the matter, she's decided that there is only one nice thing about small breasts. She can show off a lot of skin without looking cheap.

She has been thinking of him, feverishly, since his phone call the previous night. She thinks about him a lot, anyway, daydreams that manage to seem more important than her real life. She likes pretending that some day they'll travel the world together, visiting all the great museums. With his influence he'll be able to take her to the houses of the rich and the aristocratic to view their private collections which are selfishly hidden from the world at large. He will stand pressed against her in front of sketches and statues, in his dark suits, his arm strong and possessive around her waist. With his other hand, those long, careful fingers will gently brush her hair away, so that he can murmur his observations in her ear.

She has tasted what it's like to share art with him. When she had been studying in Paris, he had escorted her to the Louvre one Sunday for a few hours, before taking his leave to finish preparing for an important meeting.

She has always remembered how long they stood in front of Gericault's 'The Raft of the Medusa'. He had stood directly next to her, the left side of his body contouring to the right side of her own. She had looked less at the painting, which disturbed her, than at him and his reactions to it.

"This is my father's favorite painting," he had said. "I think he wishes for the power to make people writhe and suffer like this."

She stared up at him, whenever he spoke to her, so that he would understand how much everything he said mattered to her. "I'm sorry," she had said. She didn't know what else to say. On Lex's behalf, she hated his father.

"You know the story? La Meduse was a French naval ship which ran aground. The captain decided to abandon ship. He, his senior officers, and assorted dignitaries took the lifeboats, leaving only that raft for the remaining passengers and crew. There were a hundred and fifty people, and they drifted for thirteen days. Only fifteen of them survived to be rescued, and of those fifteen, five died within days of the rescue."

"God." When she looked at the huge canvas, she could see the hunger, the thirst, the terror. So much pain. It overwhelmed her. "I can't bear it."

"Can you imagine it?" His voice was tight, as though he tried to control a great anger. "The survivors were forced to resort to cannibalism."

"Lex, please." Contemplating it made her feel ill. She clutched at his hand.

He looked at her then, and shook his head, as though he were trying to clear his own vision. "I'm sorry. Are you ok?" She nodded. He gently squeezed her hand between both of his own. It made her feel safe. She blushed with the realization that it made her feel loved. But he did not love her. She knew this. Yet he could make her feel beloved. How could that be? He raised her hand to his lips and her want deepened at the hint of moisture in the kiss. "Let's get you something to drink," he said, and then his arm was around her and he was steering her toward a cafe. His tight grip on her had made her feel safe again.

Many nights, as she lies in bed trying to fall asleep, she invents hundreds of scenarios for what it would be like the first time she slept with him, the first time he said he loved her, the first time she believed it were true. It doesn't matter if she's alone, or there's someone else in bed beside her. She likes to think of him before she sleeps.

She has been thinking of him for so long, and now he is suddenly here, right in front of her. It's too much; she doesn't know if she has the coordination to stand.

He is wearing a dark suit and a bright blue tie, and says, "This is for you." He holds out a white box, tied with a velvet ribbon, the same color as his tie.

She finds her voice. "You shouldn't have." She looks up at him, still feeling unreal.

"You'll be glad I did, once you open it."

As she unties the ribbon, her hands move on their own, smoothly, like they're not connected to the rest of her body, to the gallop of her heart. Wow. Only Lex could do something like this. It's an Hermes Birkin bag in blue leather, the color of the ribbon, the color of his tie. There are cars that cost less than a Birkin. Not the kind of cars that Lex drives, but, still, it's an extravagant gift. "This is amazing. I don't know what to say."

"A 'thank you' would be adequate." He smirks. "Your mouth's hanging open, you know."

She presses her lips together, and smiles, slightly embarrassed, but mostly pleased. Her legs seem to be working now. She stands and says, "Thank you."

"You're welcome."

She runs her fingers over the front, over the delicate latch which opens the bag. She had told him in Paris that some day she wanted a bag like this. "You remembered."

"I did."

"This is so, so thoughtful, Lex. No one's ever given me something this nice before."

"I'm sure they would have if they could have afforded it."

She wonders if he thinks she meant Clark. She didn't. She wasn't talking about the price. What she appreciates is that he had listened and thought her desires mattered. "Perhaps."

"Open it. There's something else."

She slowly turns the silver clasp. He knows she prefers silver to gold. Opening the flap, she sees a small package wrapped in beige butcher block paper and tied with a string. She unties the string slowly. The sun is starting to set. It is a small framed Cartier-Bresson photograph of a man, sitting slouched in an alley, talking to a stray cat. He's her favorite photographer. She looks up at Lex, who watches her with a satisfied smile. "Oh, Lex." She doesn't know what else to say. There are tears in her eyes.

"It's one of his original prints."

"God. Thank you." She has to laugh. "These are ten times nicer than all my things put together. You're making the rest of my stuff look bad."

"Your dress is nice."

"Oh, it's cheap. I have to wash it by itself or it bleeds dye on everything else."

"You look beautiful."

"You always flatter me."

"You like it."

She reaches out her hand, and he takes it to help her up. She puts her hand on his arm and smiles. "Yeah, I do."

 

He takes her to an Italian restaurant down by the water. Everyone working there fusses over them. They don't order from the menu. Instead, the staff brings out special dishes just for them. Lex spends a long time talking with the sommelier, before deciding on the wines that would best accompany each course. She wants to get drunk, because it makes her bold, but she also doesn't want to be drunk. She doesn't want things to become hazy. She wants to be able to remember all of this in sharp detail.

"I recently attended the opening of a fascinating new exhibit at the Metropolis Museum of Folk Art."

When the museum first opened he had sent her a book on the collection. "Tell me about it."

"They were paintings done by a born-again Christian, Vietnam Vet. It was all fire and brimstone, and the carnal path that led there. Reminded me of Bosch, frankly."

"The artist was untrained?"

"Yes. I appreciate folk art because it proves there's something primal about the creative impulse. People emerge from communities you might expect to be culturally barren with absolutely astonishing expressions of rage."

"You think it's only rage they're expressing?"

"Maybe this is an example of seeing what you're looking for. Clark didn't like it. You know how he fidgets when he's bored."

"When it comes to art, Clark thinks 'pretty' means 'good'." It's a snide thing to say, but there's a stupid, stupid jealousy that she can not kill. "I just can't see you talking to him about art the way you talk to me."

"You're underestimating him. If I don't talk to him about art, it's because we have more important things to discuss."

"Yeah, right. You mean that you have more important things to do. More fun to fuck than talk, right?"

"Lana Lang! I'm telling Nell on you. You're not allowed to make jokes like that."

"I'm not joking. What's more important than art?"

"To whom?"

"I don't know. To anyone."

"You ask that question a hundred times, you'll get a hundred different answers."

"What's more important than art to you?"

"Power."

"You can do better than that old cliché, can't you?"

"You know enough about my father to understand why I always want to be able to defend myself and my interests."

"And what's more important to Clark?"

"Ask him yourself."

"Maybe I will." She's a brat, nursing a grudge for far too long, nursing it on both sides. Wanting Lex, and at the same time, resenting Clark, both for having Lex, and for leaving her behind. She has always remembered going to Lex's when she was first managing the Talon to seek his advice about a personnel problem. She had been at the door to his study, and inside she saw Lex and Clark standing side by side. Lex was pointing out something in a book Clark was holding, speaking softly as he gestured, and Clark was nodding, in rapt attention. When she had entered the room and spoken to them, they looked up with twin expressions of annoyance. Lex had covered his quickly, but Clark had not. She had never liked the feeling of being passed over or outgrown. "How's Clark doing, anyway? His latest e-mails have been kind of strange."

Lex's gaze immediately swings away from her own, and fixes on some far away point behind her. "I wouldn't know; we're spending some time apart."

She's upset him. She never meant to. She doesn't even want to hear about Clark, it ruins the illusion that she and Lex are together, after all. "Do you want to talk about it?"

His eyes meet hers again, and they are hard. He moves his hand in front of his face as though he were wiping a blackboard clean. "It's 'nostalgie de la boue', now."

The French throws her for a moment, and then she remembers. Nostalgia for mud. He must really be hurting. Everything suddenly falls into relief. The gifts, the extravagant kindness, he's hoping she'll report back to Clark, make him feel jealous or regretful. It stings, but it also re-opens her heart and makes her wish there was something she could do for Lex. "What's wrong?"

"Clark's been very angry since Jonathan died."

"Of course, he lost his father."

Lex's mouth twists. "Let me rephrase. Clark is very angry at me, since his father died."

"Why? It's not your fault. We've both been through losing a parent, Lex. You know you can't take how Clark's acting right now personally."

Lex rubs the back of his hand slowly across his jaw. "It's all a matter of perspective." It's amazing what he can do with his voice. The disdain he released on saying 'perspective' made it sound like a curse word. "Clark's worldview is becoming increasingly dichotic."

"Psychotic?"

He laughs. "No, no. Well," He laughs again, "no. I said 'dichotic'. I just mean that he is very determined to see only two categories these days, black and white, good and bad, however you want to put it. He doesn't want to deal with complexities. It's easier to just say something is only right or only wrong."

She understands now. She remembers how Clark had seen her, seen through her, rather, looked only for what he imagined she was, not who she really was. "He's acting like you're on different sides?"

Lex, who had been playing with the stem of his wine glass, refocuses his gaze on her. "That's well put," he says. "That's often exactly how it feels. In a way, though, it's always felt that way. We've always fought each other."

"I think," she has never said this to him before, but that does not make it less true, "that Clark needs you." She can see in his face the conflict between his hope and his cynicism. He actually frowns, then smiles, in turn. "You're going to have to be patient with him."

There is a lull in the conversation, while he processes her revelation and she gives him privacy by returning her attention to finishing her meal. After a final sumptuous bite of lobster, she puts down her silverware and smiles up at him. "This was such an amazing meal."

"Have you ever dreamed of being a gangster's moll?"

She hasn't actually, but now that he mentions it, "Sure. Get to laze around in a silk dressing gown on a divan all day, drinking martinis and smoking with a pearl cigarette holder. Sounds fabulous."

"We should head to the lounge, then. You'll love it."

They eat gelato and drink champagne, sitting smashed together in a red leather booth in the corner, trying to out-nostalgia each other with Smallville stories, until it's almost midnight.

 

She holds his hand in the limo. They sit close together, and she can feel, through the fabric of his slacks, the warmth of his thigh against her bare leg.

When they pull up in front of her building, neither moves. Lex unrolls the windows and humid summer air drifts in. They sit on, side by side, their breathing synchronized. "Lex," she says.

"Yes?"

"The people, on the raft of the Medusa, the people who lived, why? Why did they?"

He immediately grasps what she's asking. She's always considered it a measure of his intelligence, how quickly his mind turns in new directions. "I was thinking of that afternoon earlier today."

"Were you?"

"It was a good day," he says, solemnly, as though it happened a hundred years ago and can never be recaptured. "I don't know why they lived, Lana. They just did, that's all."

"The survivors, though, what do you think they believed?"

"I don't know. That they were blessed, maybe? That it was their destiny to be saved?"

He's not looking at her, but his hand, still in hers, helps her to go on. "It's so strange. I've always wondered why my parents had to die, but not why I lived. I don't think it's anything but chance. There's no meaning behind it. There's no meaning behind any of this."

"I don't disagree."

Confessing to him is as effortless as her exhale. "It doesn't matter that I lived. It's," she knows it, suddenly, this awful truth. "It's irrelevant."

"Hey," he says, turning now to face her. "No, it's not. Not to me." He slaps her very lightly on each cheek. "Don't ever say that again."

"Sometimes I want to go back to Smallville. I want to live there again and visit them every single day."

"It wouldn't be better for you, back there."

"Why not?"

"It will just remind you of what you've lost."

"The last thing Whitney ever said to me was that he'd loved me since the first time he saw me, and he'd still love me when he saw me again."

"And I'm sure he will."

She shakes her head. "I never saw him after that. I didn't see him before he died. I won't ever see him again, Lex. I don't believe there's anything left after we die."

"Neither do I. Only a fool would." His hand brushes her hair away from her cheek. "I read something once, though. I think it was 'only the fool has tasted love.'"

"I wish I could see them again. I wish I could hold them."

She has never seen him look so sad. For himself, for her, it doesn't matter. "I understand," he says, and his voice is hoarse.

She kisses him. She knows she's not supposed to, but she can't help it. She can't face his sadness without trying to soothe it.

He kisses her back for one perfect moment, his arms tightening around her. When he pulls away, he touches his fingers to her trembling lip. "Don't cry."

"Sorry."

"Don't be sorry, just don't cry." She nods, and tries her hardest to blink back her tears. Another falls, though, hot on her cheek, and he wipes it away with his thumb. "You're young and beautiful, and you're going to have a beautiful life."

She's heard that before, and always rolled her eyes at it. He, however, sounds so goddamn sure that she lets herself believe, just for this moment. "And you?"

"I'm not so young and not so beautiful, and my life's going to be," he pauses, "complicated."

"Lex?"

"Yes?"

She clutches at his hand, and he gives her a reassuring squeeze in return. "I think you're beautiful."

He sits back, with sardonic wonder in his eyes, and raises his arm, like a king about to deliver a proclamation. She knows whatever he says next will be half bullshit bravado and half sincere declaration. "Lucky me."

Lana smiles.


End file.
